What I did on my summer vacationTwenty-four years ago my buddy Jason and I decided we were going to be comic book artists.
Twenty-two years ago I was inspired by the cool clipart in my youth group’s newsletter. The youth minister sought our submissions- stories, poems, jokes and cartoons. At that point I decided three things, one was that magazine gag cartoons and comic strips were just as cool as comic books and I was going to draw them. The third was that laying out a newsletter, newspaper, magazine, etc. was really cool.
Twenty-one years ago I discovered a section of the Phoenix Gazette that I’d overlooked. Once a week, high school students from all over the metro area contributed stories, pictures, and a comic strip to ‘the Teen Gazette,’ which ranged from one to four pages, depending on the week. I also noticed that the cartoonist was a graduating Senior. That’s when I decided to become a cartoonist. I drew up a few samples and submitted them to the Teen Gazette. They ran them and kept running them for the next four years.
That fall I discovered what I thought was the coolest thing of all time-
Sophomore year they made me “Art Director” and put me on staff full time. It was a class that I got credit for. I was in heaven. It was hard work, working with blue pencils and dummy-sheets, an off-set typesetting machine, line-tape, pica rulers and exacto blades. Late work nights and difficult deadlines, but I loved it. I decided that the cartooning field was too competitive, so I would become a graphic designer, just in case.
I had “Journalism” put on my class ring. I wondered if that was wise, so much could change in a year or two.
Toward the end of Junior year, the student-editor and advisor asked me to apply to be editor. I balked at the responsibility. They pressed. The only other candidates weren’t as qualified. I caved, and I paid for it. It was even harder work and mounds of stress, but I was glad I did it. That year I decided that if I could ask a genie for anything, it would be to get to be a newspaper columnist. Of course I knew that the real-life route there was a lot more difficult than I’d ever choose to travel.
Seventeen years ago I opted not to actively pursue the editor’s chair of my college paper, but I did draw cartoons for it, both political and otherwise. I even got called to the President’s office about one once. And I got to write a political column some too.
Fourteen years ago my fiancé’ managed to land me a job at Lyon Publishing. She’d worked for the Charter Oak-Ute NEWSpaper throughout high school and was yearbook editor. I remember the smell of press ink in the office when I first came entered. It was like the smell of sawdust for circus folk.
That was the year of Charter Oak’s centennial. I had to sell ads for a special edition, and for a
Years past and I became a high school Art teacher, Yearbook, and Newspaper Advisor.
Three years ago, I asked Mike Lyon if I could work for him that summer. What a treat. That year I learned what the newspaper business was really like. Difficult, but a joy.
At the end of that summer, I wrote a column called “What I did on my summer vacation.”
Last spring, I BEGGED Mike to hire me for another summer. They needed someone to help fill some gaps. This has been an emotionally difficult summer for Lyon Publishing, as anyone close to the papers knows.
I don’t know how much I was able to help. If anything, I got more than I gave. I learned even more and I got to do things I love and got paid for it.
I can only hope that I was able to help and contribute enough to make me worth it to them. I’d like to thank the
I’d also like to remind readers how lucky they are, in such small towns to have such nice newspapers. I encourage all of you to support them by contributing your stories and pictures, renewing your subscriptions, and of course by advertising.
You’ve heard the old saying: The hard thing about being a bridge is that you get walked on from both ends. As someone who spends roughly half of my time in the conservative world and half in the liberal (theologically and politically speaking), I suppose I qualify as a kind of bridge person. Unfortunately, my experience confirms the old saying, and I have a few boot marks on my backside to prove it.
The fact is, I don’t feel very qualified to write this article. I’m assuming the best person for the job should be well accepted and respected on both sides of the bridge. He or she should feel successful in communicating with both liberals and conservatives, feel comfortable in both red and blue states, be liked by both Hannity and Colmes. Sadly, the more I communicate with one side of the bridge, the more I feel suspect by the other. As a result, I’ve been invited to stay out of a state of one color, and in spite of my above-average imagination, I can’t imagine possibly connecting with Colmes and Geraldo without infuriating Hannity and O’Reilly, or vice versa.
So, if I’m a bridge, I’m a rickety one, a "plan B," I suppose. My basic qualification to write this article is my belief that we as followers of Christ should at least try to talk to everybody we can - and to do so, as the Apostle Peter said, with "gentleness and respect" (1 Peter 3:15). I don’t agree with the tone of the conservative author who offers advice on how to talk to a liberal "if you must," suggesting that it’s an odious task that one must do while pinching her nose. Nor do I agree with any liberal mirror image who sees all conservatives as equally stinky conversation partners. I have been given no exemption card regarding 1 Corinthians 13, and my calling as a Christian requires me, in the words of Paul, to "become all things to all people."
To read the entire article click HERE
MeetWithCindy.org: "*CARLY'S POEM*
A Nation Rocked to sleep
by Carly Sheehan
Sister Casey Sheehan Killed In Action 04/04/04
Sadr City Baghdad
Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son?
The torrential rains of a mother's weeping will never be done
They call him a hero, you should be glad that he's one, but
Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son?
Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries?
He must be brave because his boy died for another man's lies
The only grief he allows himself are long, deep sighs
Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries?
Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave?
They say that he died so that the flag will continue to wave
But I believe he died because they had oil to save
Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave?
Have you ever heard the sound of a nation being rocked to sleep?
The leaders want to keep you numb so the pain won't be so deep
But if we the people let them continue another mother will weep"
